


And We Were In Flames

by thegirlwhocriedwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Lydia, Beacon Hills High School, Car Accidents, Derek Has Issues, Emotionally Constipated Derek, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Stiles, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, No One Important Died, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, One Night Stands, Overprotective Derek, Overprotective Scott, Panic Attacks, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Scars, Slow Build, Sorry Not Sorry, Teenage Drama, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhocriedwolf/pseuds/thegirlwhocriedwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all happened so fast.</p><p>Too fast.</p><p>Like everything else in Stiles’ life these days, all it took was a second. One second, for everything to change, for everything to once again, come crashing down around him. And like a train wreck happening in slow-motion, he watched it all unfold before his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter

It all happened so fast.

 _Too_ fast.

Like everything else in Stiles’ life these days, all it took was a second. One second, for everything to change, for everything to once again, come crashing down around him. And like a train wreck happening in slow-motion, he watched it all unfold before his eyes.

He saw it, a moment before impact, as he drove Cora home from her pseudo-date (and tried, unsuccessfully, to dodge her increasingly invasive line of questioning in regards to her older brother), the SUV barreling towards them, its headlights bright and blinding. And close, _so_ close. He saw it, and in that moment, even as his grip tightened on the steering wheel, even as he tried _desperately_ to turn, to swerve, _to somehow get out of the way_ , he already knew the outcome.

He knew, just as he’d known that night three years ago, when he had inadvertently changed his and Scott’s lives forever by sharing the knowledge of half of a dead body found in the woods, just as he’d known when he had first laid eyes on Derek Hale in those same woods. He knew, that if by some miracle, his life did not end in the moment subsequent, that it would _never_ be the same again.

He knew, but it was already too late.

And then someone was screaming, their voice echoing shrilly above the crash, above the resonance of screeching tires and the sickening crunch of twisting metal and shattering glass. And at first, as his body was thrown this way and that within the tumbling wreck that had once been his jeep, Stiles wasn’t sure _who_. The voice, although, admittedly, _vaguely_ familiar, did not seem at all connected to him.

But then someone was calling his name.

That _same_ voice telling him to get up.

To get out.

To _run_.

Recognition dawned on him just as his face smashed into the steering wheel. The too loud sound of the horn drowning out her frantic words as the uncaring waves of unconsciousness lapped at him, dragging him under little by little, until finally, at long last, he slipped into the open embrace of oblivion.


	2. All Of The Things that I Once Had

He woke slowly, in increments instead of all at once. And at first, as the stifling wisps of unconsciousness finally began receding, the only thing Stiles could register was the way the too bright room in which he lay intensified the already insistent pounding in his head.

Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut against the light, his eyelids feeling disconcertingly thick and weighed down. He frowned in confusion, but when he tried lifting his arm to probe at them, something tugged painfully at his skin, hindering the movement, and drawing his attention.

Slowly, and more than a little apprehensively, Stiles tilted his head to stare down at his arm, blinking rapidly to make his blurry vision focus on the bulky IV needle that protruded from his… _What_?!

Why did he have an _IV_?

Where _was_ he exactly?

What was…?

And like a switch that had been flipped, it all came rushing back to him. Like some sort of twisted, macabre slideshow. The world’s most fucked up recap.

He remembered it all, the SUV, the numbing shock as it had collided with his jeep. He remembered hitting his head (among other things), and someone calling out to him right before he’d passed out. Someone _screaming_ at him.

Cora had been in the jeep with him. She had been calling his name, telling him… _something_. He couldn’t recall what. But surely if she’d been able to string together coherent sentences then, then that meant she was alright, _right_? She was a _werewolf_ for God’s sake, werewolves didn’t just… She couldn’t just… There’s no way that she…

Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

Panic bloomed in his chest, an overwhelmingly _stifling_ thing, the debilitating fear that came with it making tears bloom at the back of his eyes. Dimly, as he tried futilely to fight off the impending panic attack, Stiles was aware of the loud, obnoxious beeping of the various monitors beside the hospital bed, and of the door to the too bright room swinging open, and of a number of people barging in, talking _at_ him, their voices muffled and distorted by the roaring in his ears.

“C…” he tried, but he couldn’t speak. There was something in his mouth, he realized despairingly, something stuck so far down his throat that he couldn’t… Oh God, he couldn’t _breathe_! _Why couldn’t he breathe_?!

Desperately, Stiles reached up to claw at his throat, the sharp sting of the IV being dislodged barely even registering. There were various pairs of hands on him in an instant, pinning him down, immobilizing him.

“…at me, Stiles.” Someone was saying ( _demanding_ , really), the familiar voice breaking through the thick wall of his rapidly growing anxiety just as Melissa McCall’s face appeared in his line of sight. “Look at me.” She snapped. “You are _not_ having a panic attack.” She told him, her tone so _matter-of-fact_ that he almost believed her. _Almost_. “Do you want to know why?” she continued, not even bothering to wait for a response. “Because you’re fine. _You are fine, Stiles_. Do you hear me?”

Stiles nodded jerkily, more in an effort to placate _her_ , rather than to show his agreement. But as his wide, wild eyes traced the relief that crossed her features at the gesture, chasing away the worry as a soft, motherly smile spread across her lips, he found himself relaxing as well.

“You’re fine.” Melissa repeated, softer this time, her gentle fingers brushing away the tears he hadn’t even realized he’d shed. “Everything’s fine.” She said. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax, okay? Just so we can get that breathing tube out. Is that alright with you?”

Another nod, this one more subdued than the last, hesitant even. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being sedated so close after an almost breakdown. But then he thought about being _awake_ while they _pulled that thing from his throat_. And no, nope, that was _so_ not happening.

At the corner of his eye he watched as Melissa straightened, taking something from one of the other nurses, a syringe, filled with a clear liquid. Stiles kept his eyes on her as she bent over where his arm rested beside him on the bed, his wrist still restrained by a gloved hand. He watched as she cut the flow to the IV he hadn’t even realized someone had reinserted, tapping the needle a few times before injecting him with the sedative. He kept watching her, even as his eyelids began to droop, even as a languid heat began unfurling within his veins, even as his heartbeat evened out and the machines beside him finally quieted.

He kept watching her, and her gentle, dark brown eyes watched him back.

“C…?” he tried, though he knew he couldn’t. But he needed to know. He needed to be sure. He needed… Melissa must have seen the question in his eyes because she answered anyway.

“She’s…alive.” She whispered.

Something in his chest loosened at the words, an overwhelming sense of relief causing more tears to spring to his eyes. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut to keep them from falling. And maybe, if he hadn’t been hovering precariously on the brink of oblivion, his lethargic mind would have registered her sorrowful expression. Maybe, if he hadn’t been so utterly _ecstatic_ to hear that his best friend (next to Scott, of course) was alive, he would have realized that being _alive_ , and being _alright_ , were two _very_ different things.

Maybe then, he would have fought against the pull of the sedative.

Maybe then, he would have fought harder to reopen his eyes.


	3. Like Two Sheets Of Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. I'm really sorry it took so long. Forgive me?
> 
> I hope you like it. :3

When Stiles woke again, three things became instantly clear. The first, was that the room he was laying in was no longer _too bright_ (actually, he wasn’t entirely certain he was even in the _same_ room). The second, was that he must have been _immensely_ under medicated, because everything (and he meant absolutely _everything_ ), hurt. And the third, was the fact that although Melissa McCall, and all of the other nurses, had left, he was not alone.

There was someone else nestled on the small, hospital bed beside him, a soft, distinctly _feminine_ body. And though Stiles’ past experiences of being cuddled in bed with members of the opposite sex, or _any_ sex really (since he was an equal opportunity sort of guy) was _vastly_ lacking, it was enough for him to instantly narrow down the possibilities.

Cora, of course, was his first guess (for obvious reasons), but the delicate curves that were currently pressed to his side did not belong to his best friend. And since _delicate_ was not a word he would use to describe Allison, Erica, or Malia, _ever_ (not even in the privacy of his head, where there was no risk of them overhearing him), and he and Kira hadn’t exactly reached the _snuggling_ stage of their pseudo-friendship just yet (if ever), that left only one plausible option.

“H-Hey there, beautiful,” Stiles croaked, his pained voice low and gravelly from disuse. “Fancy meeting you here. If I’d known _this_ is what it would take to get you in bed with me,” he teased. “I would’ve wrecked my jeep a lot sooner.”

Beside him, with her face pressed to his shoulder, and her small hands gripping one of his, Lydia let out an uncharacteristically inelegant snort. “Shut up, loser,” she said, her muffled voice hushed and lacking heat. “We both know I’m not the one you want in your bed. That person hasn’t been me for a _very_ long time now.”

“Oh, Lyds,” he murmured, shifting (with great effort) to glance down at her, her face hidden from his gaze, and the long strands of her strawberry-blond hair pulled into a messy bun high on the crown of her head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were jealous.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am.” She whispered petulantly, after a pause that lasted just shy of too long.

 _Not of_ her _though_ , his mind added (un)helpfully, which, of course, was absolutely true, and not at all surprising. What _was_ surprising, however, was the fact that the realization didn’t hurt _nearly_ as much as he’d expected it to.

But then again, that may have had something to do with the actual, _physical_ pain that he was in at the moment. Adding _emotional_ pain to the mix would be kind of redundant. And cruel.

Stiles laughed, or at least he _tried_ to, his (admittedly, bitter, and somewhat hysterical) laughter quickly devolving into a coughing fit that made tears spring to his eyes as it wracked his entire body.

“Stiles!” Lydia exclaimed worriedly, sitting up and staring down at him with wide, puffy, bloodshot eyes. “I’m getting a nurse.”

“N-No…” he wheezed, wincing in pain even as he reached out to grab her hand as she climbed off of the bed. “I’m f-fine. W-Water…”

“Water?” she repeated, hovering over him uncertainly. “Okay, alright,” she said, nodding. “I’ll go get you some water.”

Staring after her retreating form as she headed out the door, Stiles forced himself to remain calm until his cough finally subsided, leaving his throat as raw and aching as the rest of his body.

“ _Jesus_.” He hissed, breathless, swiping at the tears that streamed down his face with trembling hands.

It was then that he heard the buzzing.

On the bedside table beside her ridiculously large purse, Lydia’s phone sat ringing, Jackson’s obnoxiously handsome face flashing across the screen.

Feeling his lips curve into a fond smile on their own accord, Stiles reached for the phone. “Keeping tabs from halfway round the world, Whittemore?”

“ _Stilinski_?” Jackson’s familiar voice breathed, the sound of pure relief in his tone making Stiles’ smile widen. “Oh, thank God.” His friend sighed, and if someone had told Stiles two years ago that he’d actually use the words _friend_ , and _Jackson Whittemore_ in the same sentence, and _mean_ it, he probably would have laughed in their face. _Loudly_. About as loudly as _Jackson_ would have laughed if someone had told _him_ that there would come a day when he’d be legitimately _happy_ to hear _Stiles Stilinski’s_ voice.

Funny how things (and people) change.

“You fucking _asshole_.” Jackson growled. Did Stiles say _change_? He meant become slightly more… _tolerable_. “Do you have _any_ idea how fucking _worried_ we were?” he demanded, angrily. “You scared the _hell_ out of us, Stilinski. If you so much as _think_ about pulling a stunt like this again, so help me _God_ , Stiles, I will get on the first plane out of London and eviscerate you myself.”

“Trust me,” Stiles scoffed. “I don’t intend too.”

Jackson snorted. “Yeah, a couple weeks in a medically induced coma will do that to a guy.”

Wait, _what_?

“Hold up, a couple of _weeks_?” he repeated faintly, his heart beginning to race. “Jackson, exactly how long ago did I crash my jeep?”

“Two weeks ago…”

“ _Two_ wee…and I-I’ve been _asleep_ this entire time?”

“Up until yesterday,” he replied, sounding suddenly hesitant. “I’m guessing you haven’t spoken to your doctor as yet? You had head trauma, they had to put you in a medically induced coma until the swelling went down.”

“Oh my _God_!” Stiles exclaimed. “Wait, what day is it?”

“December twenty-eighth…”

“I missed _Christmas_?!”

“Yes, Stiles,” Jackson said exasperatedly, and Stiles could practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “You missed Christmas.”

“ _Damn_ ,” he muttered. “I had plans. Cora and I were going to…” he couldn’t recall exactly _what_ he and Cora had planned on doing, but he knew they were going to do… _something_. “Wait a second, where _is_ Cora? Why isn’t she here ripping me a new one for almost killing myself?”

He heard Jackson sigh. “Lydia hasn’t told you yet.”

Stiles froze, dread unfurling within his chest. “Told me _what_?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice even, to keep his panic at bay. “What hasn’t Lydia told me, Jackson?”

“Cora…” he began, haltingly. “She’s…they think that she probably tried to shield you from the impact. She’s a lot worse off than you are, Stiles. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, head trauma; they still have her in intensive care. She took the brunt of the crash, and…and she… _she isn’t healing_.”

“W-What…?” Stiles stuttered, his entire world tilting _perilously_ on its axis. “What do you mean she isn’t healing?”

“She just _isn’t_ …” vaguely, he was aware of Jackson continuing, even as he dropped the phone, and threw off his covers, he could still hear his tinny voice drifting out from the speaker, even as he climbed out of bed, and headed for the door, his teeth gritted against the pain that assaulted his body with every step, against the absolute _agony_ that was completely unrelated to the battered state of his physical being, the adrenaline currently coursing through his veins doing nothing to dim his hurt.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s panicked voice called as he navigated his way through halls that would always be familiar, the double doors that led into the ICU just within his sights. “Stiles, wait!”

Stiles forced his legs to move faster.

Pushing through into the ICU, he rushed past the harried nurse that sprang to her feet at his entrance, shouting after him as he raced down the corridor, her voice joining Lydia’s. Stiles ignored them both, his attention focused solely on finding the right room, his gaze jumping from door to door as he passed, glancing in through the glass windows until he…

“Oh, God,” he whispered, collapsing against the frame of the door as soon as he yanked it open, his heart hammering within his chest, the sound so loud that it almost overpowered the incessant mechanical beeping of all of the various machines and monitors currently connected to the broken girl that laid before him.

“ _Cora_?” he called, wrecked, though he knew she wouldn’t respond. Her battered body lay unmoving on the bed in the middle of the room, looking far too fragile, far too _human_ , for Stiles’ liking. “Oh, baby,” he sobbed, stumbling forward on unsteady feet, his watery gaze never once leaving her bruised and swollen face. “I’m so _sorry_.”

“That’s close enough.” Peter’s voice hissed suddenly, and Stiles became startlingly aware of the two pairs of electric blue eyes that stared at him with such hatred and accusation that he flinched as though he had been struck.

Peter stood beside Cora’s bed, both of his hands clutching one of hers’, while his heated gaze pinned Stiles to the spot. But it wasn’t _him_ who made Stiles’ vision swim with fresh, guilty tears, _he_ wasn’t the one who made Stiles’ chest constrict until even _breathing_ became unbearable. No, it was the _other_ occupant of the room, the one who sat on the single chair on the opposite side of Cora’s bed, the one who’s cold gaze shattered something within Stiles, something _vital_ , something that had him wishing _desperately_ that this was all just an incredibly vivid, and utterly fucked-up, dream, that he’d wake up and realize that it had all been a nightmare.

“ _Derek_ …” he began, brokenly, but Derek had already looked away, dismissing him, his attention returning to his sister.

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice coaxed softly as she slipped a hand into his. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I-I know,” he stammered, fighting against her hold as she tried to pull him back. “I just want to…I _need_ to…”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Peter sneered, his words hitting Stiles like a punch to the gut, his breath leaving him in a pained hiss as he stumbled back.

 _He’s right_ , he thought, wretchedly, his gazing sweeping his best friend’s unconscious form one last time before he turned and allowed Lydia to lead him away. _I did that. This is my fault_.

“You’re right.” He heard himself whisper, pausing at the threshold of the room, the door held open by the nurse, her expression as sympathetic as Lydia’s. “I’m sorry.”

When neither Peter, nor Derek, responded, Stiles forced his legs to move. With a heavy heart, and an _overwhelming_ feeling of despair, he clung to Lydia all the way back to his room, where they both collapsed on the bed, and held each other, while he cried silently, and she murmured words of comfort and reassurance that neither of them believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update at least once a week from now on.  
> No promises though, so try not to hold it against me if I'm a little late.
> 
> Because writer's block, man. /:  
> Also, I'm a law student, so actually finding time to write is sometimes difficult.


End file.
